harbinger of the holy
by noirshitsuji
Summary: ...it's going to be alright, really; Mustang, climbing his way upwards as responsible adults do, in the third instalment of the 'diplomats of the future' series


_**harbinger of the holy**_

* * *

Roy Mustang had always been too good to be true (in his opinion, at least), but this was getting rather ridiculous.

Before the Promised Day, people had thought he was Bradley's secret, illegitimate son from a Xingese concubine because how _else _could they explain his rise through the ranks? With _skill _and _hard work_? Nonsense.

(He counted himself lucky, though, because, unlike General Armstrong, at least he wasn't rumoured to be the lover of some other general/Führer/foreign dignitary; some even went as far to suggest she bore the child of a Drachman nobleman and that that was why they didn't dare attack.)

Now, being _Brigadier General_ Mustang, they thought he was _Grumman's _illegitimate child from a Xingese concubine, even if many of them had seen him try and save the world and put earnest effort into restoring Ishval and being an all-around nice guy, because a) old habits die hard, and b) he and the Führer still met at least once a week for a game of chess, which Roy always _inadvertently _lost (and when he wanted something, i.e. nine meetings out of, he immediately challenged him to a rematch and lost _again_).

Still, that didn't bother him, because he knew he was in the right. The restoration was going better than it _should _have, Amestrians and Ishvalans (and Americans) were becoming fast buddies, he'd recently managed to help some engineers who were working on improving the steam engine by incorporating some of the principles he knew from fire alchemy (let's not forget who held the 'youngest state alchemist record' _before _Edward Elric had swept in and basically threatened to kill the Führer if he didn't get the title, and that _without _having become disabled in order to gain the skills for it), he was titled a 'Hero of the People' for a second time, and he was, overall, fast on the path towards atoning, at least somewhat, for his sins.

And he could make 'miracles' (though alchemy /and science as a whole, come to think of it/ might as well be magic for most people, so no need for the quotation marks) happen simply by putting his hands together.

He should be a saint, really.

* * *

To the naked, uneducated (peasant) eye, however, 90% of his work consisted of talking on the phone, mostly because a) people assumed he rested when they didn't see him, which he didn't. Ever. (Hawkeye was going to kill Marcoh for those caffeine pills one of these days) and b) they did not _understand _what power words held, mostly because c) they themselves thought man needed to know only five words to get by - buck, bill, beer, and "Yes, sir" and d) any sentences longer than five words were a sign of snobbery. Some still thought he had had a florist secret lover named Elizabeth that he was hiding from Hawkeye; there had even been bets about how 'the latter' would react once she discovered 'the former's' existence (Breda had jokingly bet a hundred cens on 'would erase her being entirely' and had won their worth a hundred times over once people tried to investigate and discovered that they _couldn't _find such a person at all; suffice to say, nobody dared say _anything _to Hawkeye at all in the following _month_, which was mostly fine by her since she thought most of them were closer relatives to our ape ancestors than the average human anyway).

"Yes?"

"Hello, General Armstrong, how are things at Briggs?"

"Ah, great, it's you. What do you want?"

"Simply to inquire as to whether you need us to send anything other than the regular supplies this week. We have prepared a special candy basket for each of the soldiers since it _is _the season, but we wanted to know if you needed anything else." _We are sending everybody extra ammunition._

"Ah, how very generous of his Führerness." _Why?_

"Very generous, indeed. He apparently heard the child of one of the soldiers complaining last year about there not being enough sweets and how this year you would also need extra blankets. We are a bit stretched as far as wool goes, but if we send extra cotton ones, would it be alright?" _Our informant said there weren't enough in the last raid, and we have intelligence that Drachma is planning another one. You'll also need extra soldiers; most State Alchemists are busy, but we can send more regular personnel if that's alright?_

"Perfectly so. When will the shipment arrive?" _We'll make do with regular. When will the supplies be here?_

"In five days. I've enclosed instructions for the crackers, in case such are needed. Be sure to open them on the festival." _I've sent someone to tell you everything we know. As far as we know, the raid is planned for the festive day itself._

"How kind of you. Don't worry, we will. Bye, then, I have actual work to do." _Thank you, we'll be ready._

"Merry holidays to you too, General." _You're welcome, and good luck._

It is not a coincidence that most people in Central also know him as the 'Silver-tongued Alchemist'; it is a reputation strengthened by accounts of some of the finest ladies in Amestris (for reasons having more to do with his ability to quickly dissolve scandals rather than his _other _ability for being the cause for such). Growing up in a brothel of spies pays off (in more respects than one).

He would make a fine Führer, really.

* * *

Unfortunately, not every Amestrian thought restoring Ishval was an excellent idea.

In fact, a certain 'purist' faction of society (along with, as it was rumoured and as Roy knew was, in fact, the case, a good portion of the military) had taken on the glorious mission of blowing up, shooting or literally _tearing apart_ every Ishvalan they came across. Lovely, wasn't it?

Of course, Grumman had him deal with it, because a) it was officially _his division_, and b) he was probably secretly hoping Roy would either die (highly unlikely, but a man could dream, right? He'd never thought he would actually get to be Führer, either, but miracles do happen, apparently) or fuck things up and disillusion a significant portion of the people who were in favour of his becoming Führer, ensuring Grumman a peaceful reign (and sleep) until the end of his life.

So, Roy went to a meeting with a few representatives of the group – alone and as harmless-looking as he could be, given that he'd actually have to _lose his arms_ in order to be _completely unarmed, _and he wouldn't put it past these people to tear his limbs off.

Of course, no member of the military was present for the meeting, and the 'leader' tried to make up for it by staring Roy extra evilly in the face. His entourage, obviously just as scared as he was, attempted the same, which delighted Roy immensely. All of them were like blonde, blue-eyed clones and Roy got the surreal sense he was facing the Immortal Army again, except he didn't feel threatened this time 'round.

"Why should we stop getting rid of the scum that has infiltrated our wonderful country, Roy Mustang?"

"Because if you don't they'll fight back and you won't like it, given that their current leaders are the man who didn't destroy the State Alchemists' division single-handedly only because he had a sudden change of heart and the right hand of Briggs' Northern Wall. They'll have a field day with you, excuse the expression."

"If they really are so powerful, why haven't they fought back yet?"

"Because being a responsible adult entails _not _solving every problem with violence just because it's easier. Some of us prefer to follow what I like to call a 'moral code'."

"How dare you...we are perfectly humane to those who deserve it, but that scum is not among them."

"Why not? Wouldn't it be better if you simply campaigned for Ishval to be made autonomous again? You could even get them on board with that, I'm sure they'll be happy to have their own country again."

"...yes, but that'll take too much time, is not guaranteed success, and they'll still _exist."_

"...you're forgetting the whole _military _tried to kill all of them last time and we still missed a significant portion; complete genocide also takes time and is _not _guaranteed success; and what, do you plan on destroying every other race on the planet, too, so that we are completely safe on the gene front? Is that it, is that the endgame?"

A thoughtful pause descended upon the group, realising how foolish, time-consuming, and down-right impractical (_how _was the economy going to move, again, without its military needed and foreign trade partners missing? and more importantly, _how were they going to get their Xingese and Cretan whores if none were left?_) that sounded.

"Well...when you put it like _that..._"

"I'm glad we've come to an understanding, gentlemen. If you disband at once, all of your members may avoid grave prison sentences by helping with the restoration of Ishval."

"...any _grave _prison sentences?"

"Don't push your luck."

"Fine, deal. One more thing, though, Mustang."

"What?"

"Why do you care so much?"

"Well, obviously, I can't have you interfering with my own personal project. Not to mention that, according to unofficial data, I'm the son of _somebody's _Xingese concubine, so I don't want to have to burn potentially thousands of purists in order to sleep peacefully. That would be rather unpleasant."

"...Indeed."

He's obviously a genius, really.

* * *

Funnily enough, for a guy whose entire reputation more or less _ran on fire_, he prided himself on managing to be cool at all times,something which he didn't manage only when he was either a) teased by Hawkeye or b) teased _about _Hawkeye.

Unfortunately for him, once his team had all, with the exception of Falman (who may or may not have become another Briggs' partisan, though he officially continued to unofficially spy for Roy there), they began to play their favourite variation of chess again – getting the queen and king together. They did so sparingly, only to provoke annoyance (and, possibly, a realisation), but avoid any _actual _wrath from either party (they honestly did _not _know what was worse between getting shot in places that bullets could not conceivably go through and being burned as a dinner steak and fed to the vultures).

Leaving them alone wouldn't work; physical contact had worked in the beginning, but not anymore; locking them in a tight space and hoping that _something _happened had already been done once and it was unanimously agreed that it would _not _be attempted again (even at gunpoint); making them somehow spill their secrets to each other wouldn't do anything, because they already knew everything about one another–

–really, it was like they were already married but simply hiding it from everybody for the sake of convenience (and dodging the martial court, but who cared about that one, really? it's not like they'd been particularly intent on catching anyone since that guy from Western HQ had started giving them 15% of the goods he contrabanded from Creta–) or to avoid being separated in case their relationship complicated missions–

–oh.

What followed after _that _link in their chain of thought was a week-long investigation during which Fuery, the most well-liked and therefore least likely to be killed once discovered, followed Hawkeye _everywhere _and determined, in the end, that she and Mustang had definitely _not _entered a relationship after realising on the Promised Day that life was short and that even that shortness wasn't guaranteed because there was always an exceptionally homicidal god-groupie wishing to take it away from you. Thankfully, Riza met with Rebecca in that one week, who was _not _privy to the plan for the simple reason that she wouldn't let them know if they were together (they'd tried to involve her in one of their previous schemes and had learned the hard way that _besties don't snitch, asshole_)_, _but got Riza extremely drunk anyway, just how they needed her, and Fuery managed to overhear their entire conversation, during which (if he'd deciphered all the code words they'd used correctly) Hawkeye had repeatedly lamented the fact that Mustang wouldn't make the move (and that she wouldn't do it first on pure principle, which was so..._female_...on her part Havoc had asked Fuery to triple check his translation).

Their mission, then, was to convince the Brigadier General that asking her out (and subsequently marrying her) would not, in fact, get them court-martialed, without mentioning the fact that there'd been an ongoing bet for years now (which already spanned half the military) that them jumping each other's bones was a matter of time (and continuing masochistic denial).

Mustang, for his part, merely waved his hand at the suggestion. "What Hawkeye and I have is much more valuable than a romantic relationship, and I can assure you we are both perfectly satisfied with the way things are."

Havoc blinked. "She's not."

"How do you know?"

"Female intuition," answered Havoc, grin as wide as Gluttony's.

It was Roy's turn to blink. "...do I–no, I don't."

"Indeed, you don't."

"Well, at least I'm–"

Havoc fixed him with a stare that made him instantly shut up. Despite the fact that they were merely drinking buddies at a bar near HQ after work, Mustang remained his superior; still, Havoc's look clearly spoke of someone who had actually gotten over his attachment issues and knew what a big pile of _shit_ Roy's 'explanation' was, and Roy found himself back in third grade, his mother disciplining him by making him sing _liar, liar, pants on fire _for three hours straight (and record himself; she still had the tape somewhere and showed it to every friend of his that came by; fortunately, Ed had been too busy laughing his ass off to request a copy).

"_Satisfied_? Look me in the eye and tell me you don't want to jump her bones."

He couldn't.

"Now look me in the eye and tell me it hasn't been like that for a _decade _already."

He couldn't.

"Now look me in the eye and tell me you can imagine being with _anyone _other than her."

No response.

"I've made my point. Excuse me, sir, for the grave offence I am about to inflict on you, but Edward Elric, whose antisocial skills, as we all know, far surpass his social ones, is already _married with two kids, _and you've both known the person who is perfect for you (and don't even _start _on this one) for nearly the same time, the difference being that you have _actually _been an adult all these years. If that doesn't show how cristal-clearly pathetic your situation is, _I honestly don't know what would._"

Roy bailed.

Havoc smirked.

They were going to be a fine couple, really.

* * *

The reason he'd wanted to get his eyesight back as fast as he could was likely not what people expected.

It was to see neither his friends' (nor Riza's, specifically) faces, nor something cheesy like the sunset or the dawn (he'd actually always found the temporary illusion that the horizon was being set on fire rather disconcerting); it wasn't something practical, like being able to perform everyday tasks without help (he'd rather liked getting pampered and being read aloud "The Agricultural History of the Ishvalan Country" and other such books as bedtime stories /Breda's voice was weirdly..._lulling..._and Fuery could somehow make the means of production sound exciting/). He'd never been a particularly big fan of fine art, so he didn't miss it; weirdly (for most of his associates, anyway), it wasn't his inability to ogle women, either.

He'd honestly been mad that he was the last to see Al in his body; he'd said as much, which had immediately made Ed (rather unwittingly) forgive him for using a Philosopher's Stone to get his sight back (and touched him in a way he somehow didn't manage to find disturbing no matter how hard he tried, which in turn disturbed him endlessly). Roy had always been soft on the inside, even if he didn't show it that much.

Riza found herself smiling at the thought, stroking his hair as he slept.

He was an alright guy, really.

* * *

**A/N: This one is more of a shout-out fic for Roy, but eh, should be fine, I think; let me know what you think in the reviews. Also, kudos to whoever caught the Sherlock reference. And yes, I do in fact headcanon Grumman as a low-key sociopath. I love him, really, but yeah.**


End file.
